Page 9 of Lovers' Dance

“Is there something I can help you with, Ms DuMont?”

I was halfway up in the air when the voice came from behind me. The tray clattered to the floor and the nice china plate smashed. The glass shattered. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me up.

“I’m so clumsy. Oh, let me get that.”

“There’s no need, Ms DuMont,” George said coldly. I jerked back, shocked by his tone and calculating appraisal as he took in my borrowed attire. “Is there something you wish me to do for you?”

“No, not really. I was bringing the tray down and I got lost, then you scared me—”

“I apologize, Ms DuMont. I didn’t intend to startle you.” The crisp black suit he wore matched exactly with his demeanour. Polite to a fault, but cutting. He didn’t sound genuinely apologetic. I need to get away from these snobby white people, and fast.

“I wanted to know if you could call me a cab. I have to go.”

“Mr Bradley gave me the impression you were to await his return,” he replied in that snotty voice of his. His face was lined with wrinkles. I wanted to think it was due to him smiling all the time, but it didn’t seem likely.

“I have to go to work, and I can’t stay here waiting for Matt.”

George’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly when I’d said the word ‘work’. The judgemental s.o.b.

“I’m a ballet dancer, you know.” I was in a huff as I bent down to pick up the stupid tray. “Not some sort of loose-morals woman. I own seventy percent of a dance studio, and we’re doing great. So don’t look down your nose at me.” I started picking up the broken pieces of china and glass and plopping it on the tray.

“Ms DuMont, I must insist you cease at once. I shall take care of it in a moment.” George sounded alarmed as he bent down in an attempt to pry the tray away from me.

“Stop it.” I yanked it back. “I’m fully capable of cleaning up my own mess, and it’s appalling having someone waiting on someone else. Plus, you look like what? A hundred? Are you sure you can straighten up?”

His bushy grey eyebrows waggled. He was going to blow his top if the red stain creeping up over that starchy collar of his was any indication.

“I beg your pardon?” The pitch of his voice increased slightly.

Yep, he was going to blow his top. I continued picking up the pieces, had gotten most of them before I straightened up. George straightened up, too.

“As you can see, Ms DuMont,” he said with those shaking eyebrows. “I’m quite able-bodied and far off one hundred years old.”

“My mistake. I do beg your pardon.” I think it was my best rendition of a stuffy British accent yet.

George did a quick intake of air. Gloved hands clenching at his sides. Was he serious? Gloves?

“Which way to the kitchen?” I asked curtly. With a ramrod-straight back, he brushed past me and marched away. I marched right after him. I was back in the first hallway and could see my shoes propped neatly by the living room door. George stiffly opened a door and revealed the kitchen.

“Thank you,” I said, fuming. I stormed over and placed the tray and its cover on the uncluttered surface of the island. I spotted my license and snatched it up, then marched out of the kitchen without another word. George followed.

“Ms DuMont, I must insist—”

“No way, buddy. Either call me a taxi or leave me alone so I can get out of this lunatic asylum.” I stomped over to grab my shoes and headed towards the door. My purse was on the little table. Perfect. Money, house keys, cell phone and Oyster card. If he didn’t call me a taxi, I would walk to the nearest tube station and ride the underground away from this nightmare.

“Ms DuMont, please.”

It was the faint traces of panic that made me pause in my grand exit. I spun around and saw George hurrying towards me.

“If I have offended you in any way, I am truly sorry, but Mr Bradley is under the impression you will be here when he returns.”

I was distracted by George’s red-stained cheeks, wondering if he was going to have a sudden heart attack. He did look one hundred. That distraction meant he was able to slip past me, easily done in the large hallway, and position himself between me and the front door.

“Why are you standing in front of the door?” I asked shrilly.

“Ms DuMont, if you can calm down for a moment, I can show you the way back upstairs—”

“I’m calling 911,” I warned, dropping the straps of my heels from one hand and fumbling through my purse. This was turning out to be the craziest twenty-four hours of my life. “You can’t hold me against my will.” Cell phone in hand, I keyed in the security code and waved my iPhone in a threatening manner at the red-faced George.

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